


Skyscraper Eyes ( Stories and Tidbits from Ghost Song )

by generictripe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Horror, Monsters, Multi, Original Character(s), Supernatural Elements, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generictripe/pseuds/generictripe





	1. Nightmare

There were few things that Elle loved more than singing. There are even fewer things she loved more than music. When words failed her, music notes would burst forth from her mouth. It was easy to sing rather than speak.   
In her nightmares her throat was sliced, her voice as well as blood spilling into a puddle around her. The thing loomed above her, a mass of teeth, fur and crimson eyes. Blood dripped from those fangs the size of steak knives. It was so wrong, seeming made of smoke and changing shape before her eyes over and over again.  
Her dream-self sputtered, choking on the blood in her throat. The ground was slick as she backed away. Her hands , clasping her gaping wound were too small. Much too small to belong to an adult woman. Her voice was too high. Her hair was even longer, messy with sweat and blood. This was wrong.  
The shock of realization sent the nightmare-scape sliding away, like someone wiping a blackboard. Beautiful oblivion replaced it and the rest of the night passed dreamless.


	2. Does it hurt?

“Does it hurt?”  
Rei froze, the book in front of him becoming a blur. Her bright hazel eyes, wide and curious scoped him out from across the table. It was impossible to escape her knowing gaze.  
“Bridgett,” he said finally, voice even and devoid of the shock in his chest, ”What do you mean?” The library was silent around them, save for the soft rustling of a pages and the scratch of pen on paper. The heady smell of fresh coffee wafted throughout the bookcases, flavoring the air.  
His friend frowned, placing a brown hand over his own. “You look at her a certain way.”  
He flinched, pulling his hand from her grip. “Valentina? No. I don’t-“  
“Rei,” Bridgett stopped him, smiling a little sadly, “Does it hurt?”  
He let out a breath through his nose, settling back into his seat. Of course Bridget knew. The dark haired woman was fiercely observant. It was unnerving sometimes how she would study people, with those bright eyes. “Sometimes.”  
“Does she know?”Bridgett’s voice was gentle, sounding like the tone one would use when speaking to an agitated animal.  
Rei prayed for release, for this casual torture to end. “I’ve told her,” he said, quiet even in the hushed library.  
“I guess that’s worse,” she muttered, placing a warm hand on his again.  
“Yeah,” he cast his eyes back down to the book, “It is..much worse.”


	3. Meaning of life//Meaning of death

“I wonder what it is like to die.”  
Zeke froze, his hands fumbling on the book ( _A Practical Exorcist’s Guide_ ) in his hands. The girl, Bridgett, across from him was not looking at him. Her wide amber eyes were cast to the ground, studying the floorboards in his grandparents’ home.  
“How the he-hell would I know,” he grumbled, his knuckles going white at his grip on the book.   
“You’ve never asked?”  
Zeke shrugged. “Why should I?”  
“You don’t wonder?”  
Zeke let out a shaky breath before closing his book with a sharp snap.  
“Of course I do,”he said. _I should be dead right now._ The bitter thought was like ice water in his lungs, sharp and cold. He drew in a gasp. Those wide eyes, framed by dark long lashes finally met his. They burned a whole in his resistance and finally, Zeke slumped. “You can’t ask a ghost what death is like!”  
“Why not?” Bridgett tilted her head to one side. She looked more like a puzzled puppy than the bringer and taker of life in a pink sundress.  
Zeke sighed, “It seems kind of invasive do-doesn’t it?”  
She was silent, watching him expectantly.  
“Death is…”Zeke paused, searching for the right words in the maze of his mind, “De-Death is cold and unforgiving. Death is pe-peaceful. Death is nice and final. Its-“ His voice caught in his throat as a pair of brown arms wrapped around his neck. Bridgett’s brown arms.  
“Hey Zeke,” she said, face pressed into the soft fabric on his shoulder, “Please don’t die.”  
He stiffened, rigid against her embrace. Then like margarine in a skillet, his hesitance melted. “I won’t. Not yet.”


End file.
